


Illya and Gaby - The Frenchman (The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction)

by IllyaWillKillYa (impalaonfire)



Series: Illya and Gaby [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Human Trafficking, Romance, Slavery, Smut, Spies, Spy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaonfire/pseuds/IllyaWillKillYa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya, Gaby, and Napoleon are working to hunt down The Frenchman, an elusive human trafficker. Contains some fluff and possibly smut later on. Some language and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delirious

Chapter 1 - Delirious 

Illya shoved the hotel room door open with a crash, stumbling into the room, drenched in water, red-tinged droplets falling from his fingers to the floor. Gaby spun around from where she stood at the window, nearly dropping the small glass of vodka in her hand.

“Illya?” She gasped, setting the glass down on the table beside the couch. “What happened?”

Illya fell heavily to his knees, eyes nearly closing with fatigue. “The Frenchman, he had more men than expected. One had shockingly good aim in the dark. I discover this the hard way.”

Shaking her head, Gaby knelt in front of him, peeling his drenched jacket away from his shoulder. She winced as the bloodstained shirt came into view. “I told you to wear protection.”

“And you were right, as always, little chop shop girl.”

Gaby rolled her eyes, carefully pulling the dripping jacket down his arms. He groaned, nearly losing his balance, leaving heavily against her for a moment. Struggling to support his weight, Gaby pushed on his shoulders. “Come on, stay with me. We need to get you to the bedroom so I can fix this without you dripping blood on the carpet.”

“You would rather me drip blood on bedsheets?” He frowned.

“Better there than here. At least you won’t fall asleep on the floor like a drunken farmer.” She wrapped her arms around him, straining to help him up. “Get your feet under you, Illya, before I pour vodka in the wound and go to bed. You weigh twice as much as me.”

“Sorry, chop shop girl.” He mumbled, clumsily dragging himself to his feet. She half supported him as they staggered towards the bedroom, barely making it in time for her to shove him onto the mattress. His long frame bounced on the mattress, arms and legs splayed every which way.

“Is very bouncy.” He slurred, half awake.

“You’re delirious. Roll over.” Gaby groaned, pulling on his shoulder. “Work with me, I have to stop the bleeding.”

“Anything for little mechanic.” He sighed, slowly turning over onto his back.

His eyelids flickered as Gaby straddled him, hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it open to reveal the bullet wound in his shoulder. She frowned, sliding off of the bed and hurrying to the living room to grab the bottle of vodka, then to the bathroom for a towel and the tweezers. When she got back to the bedroom, Illya’s eyes were closed, having fallen unconscious from exhaustion or blood loss or both.

“Shit.” Gaby growled, straddling him once more, pressing the towel against his shoulder. It quickly began to turn red with his blood. She pulled the cork from the vodka bottle with her teeth, moving the towel away from the wound and pouring a splash of the clear liquid into the hole, watching as the blood and vodka mixed into a pinkish stream pouring over this shoulder and onto the sheets.

Mopping up the mess with the towel, she gritted her teeth and picked up the tweezers, splashing vodka on them too before carefully sliding them into the wound, trying to find the bullet. Finally, metal hit metal and she gripped the slug with the slim tips of the tweezers. She pulled gently, feeling the small chunk of metal sliding past the layers of flesh.

Gaby thought it was a good thing he’d fallen asleep. He would have tried to keep a straight face and pretend it didn’t hurt, but she would have been able to see the pain in his eyes. She hated to see the pain in his eyes, and it was a pain she saw far too often. Finally, the bullet came out, and she looked at it for a moment. Crumpled and covered in Illya’s blood. She disdainfully dropped it in the empty water glass on the bedside table.

She poured another gush of vodka into the wound, which had started bleeding more profusely. Pressing the towel against his shoulder, she walked to the bathroom, pulling out another clean towel to cover the injury until she could go out and find real bandages. Once his shoulder was acceptably bound, she tiredly pulled his shoes off, setting them at the end of the bed, and working his pants down his long legs, carefully folding them and setting them on the chair in the corner.

He weighed so much, there was little she could do to remove the bloody shirt, so she would be forced to leave it until he eventually woke up. She crawled up next to him, pulling the red afghan from the chair over both of them, laying her hand on his chest, feeling his breath rise and fall.


	2. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya wakes up.

When Illya's eyes finally opened, the first thing he noticed was the dull ache in his left shoulder. The second thing he noticed was the small hand resting on his chest. He turned his head slowly to look at Gaby, trying not to wake her. Her face was pressed into the blankets, and she was completely dead to the world, a streak of his blood on her cheek.

Slowly, he lifted her hand off of his chest and slid away from her, nestling her fingers beside her other hand. He rolled from the bed wincing in pain. He held the towel against his shoulder as he walked unsteadily to the bathroom, lightheaded from blood loss.

Flicking the light on, Illya looked at himself in the mirror. His face was pale, his shirt hanging open, stained with a mixture of blood and vodka. Groaning, he peeled it off, abandoning the ruined garment on the floor. Slowly, he removed the towel, wincing as the fibers pulled at the wound. The red-tinged towel joined the shirt on the floor, and Illya leaned closer to the mirror, examining the wound.

Though encrusted with dried blood, it didn’t appear to be infected. That would explain the heavy vodka smell surrounding him; Gaby must have doused the wound multiple times to kill whatever infection might crop up. Groping in the cabinet, Illya found a washcloth, soaking it in warm water and gently beginning to clean away the blood from his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he tried not to press down too hard on the tender flesh. When he finished, he dropped the cloth in the sink, leaning against the counter tiredly, fingertips pressed against the granite so hard they turned white.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened and walked into the bedroom, quietly opening his suitcase and pulling out a black turtleneck and his spare jacket. He winced as he slid it over his head, his shoulder throbbing. His leather jacket lay on the floor where Gaby had left it last night, still wet from his hurried dive into the Seine after The Frenchman’s sniper had found his mark. He picked up the soggy wad of material and plopped it in the small kitchen sink before slipping back into the bedroom.

He tiptoed up to the bed, pulling back the covers before lifting Gaby’s sleeping form from under the afghan, gently tucking her in between the sheets. He looked down at her, feeling the need to press his lips against hers, but resisted, knowing a kiss would wake her. Instead, he slowly pulled on the new jacket, walked to the door, and let himself out without a sound.

Once he was on the street, Illya took a deep breath of the Parisian air, fresh with morning chill. He made his way down the rue, stopping in a drug store to buy bandages, tape, and ointment for the wound, which he could feel starting to bleed again thanks to his movement. The small paper bag of medical supplies dangling from his long fingers, he meandered down the street until he came upon a bakery, the mouthwatering scents of various French baked goods pouring out.

~

“Myshka.” Illya said softly, laying a hand on Gaby’s shoulder. “Wake up, little mouse.”

Gaby’s eyes flickered open, and she turned over to look at Illya, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips when he saw her sleepy expression. “Illya, what are you doing up?” She gasped, sitting up, the events of the previous night coming back to her in a rush. “You should be resting!”

“Shhh, myshka, you care for me. Now I care for you.” He lifted a tray from the bedside table, holding it out to her. “Eat, Gaby. I’m alright.” 

“But…”

“Eat.” He sat on the edge of the bed, lifting the steaming cup of coffee and handing it to her.

Gaby shook her head, accepting the cup and taking a sip. “Thank you.” She murmured, handing the cup back to him. He set it on the tray, handing her the bowl of fruit, which he’d cut up in the kitchen when she was still asleep.

“You didn’t have to do this.” She said as she took the bowl, sighing with satisfaction as she tasted the perfectly ripe strawberries. “Want a taste?” She grinned, holding out a slice between her fingertips.

He leaned closer, taking the bite from her with his teeth and capturing her small hand in his. “Very good.” He pulled her hand forward and kissed her slim fingers. “Very, very good.”

Gaby tugged on his large hand, pulling him closer, her fingertips brushing against his cheek. Her eyes closed just before his warm lips met hers. Illya let go of her hand, reaching up to caress her neck. He only pulled back when the tray threatened to tip over. 

“You make me spill breakfast if you do that too much.” He shook his head disapprovingly. 

“Then you’d best set breakfast aside.” Gaby reached out, running her hand down his arm.

Illya quickly set the tray back on the bedside table, moving closer to kiss her deeply again, his fingers tangled in her wild hair. Her hands rested on his broad shoulders, sliding down to his chest. Suddenly, she pushed him away. “Illya, you’re bleeding!” Gaby pulled at his shirt until he helped her get it over his head. She gently touched the skin near the bullet wound. 

“I may have forgotten to use bandage.” Illya shrugged. “Was too busy with your strawberries.”


	3. Napoleon Arrives

Gaby leaned in closer, examining the injury. “Well, aside from the fact that you’ve reopened the wound, it looks pretty good.”

“I know, I could smell vodka all over me.” Illya shook his head. “You like far too much.”

“What? It’s a multi-use liquid. It sterilizes wounds and knocks me out when I can’t listen to you grumbling at your chessboard anymore.” 

“I don’t grumble.” Illya defended himself.

“You’re grumbling right now.” She protested.

“I am injured. I’m allowed grumble, yes?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Fine. We need to put actual bandages on this, before you ruin the rest of your shirts.” Gaby leaned forward, pressing her lips against his.

Suddenly, the hotel room door burst open and Napoleon Solo sauntered into the room. “My apologies, don’t let me interrupt anything. Carry on.” He sank down on the sofa, smoothing his suit jacket as he looked sadly at the empty glass Gaby had left the night before. Illya and Gaby broke apart quickly, Illya rising to his feet. 

“Solo.” Gaby sighed. “Have you ever heard of knocking? Or is that not something you do in America.” 

“Oh we do it. But where’s the fun in knocking. So much more entertaining to just walk in.” Solo smirked. A frown appeared on his forehead as he noticed the bullet wound in Illya’s shoulder. “What have you done to yourself now?”

“The Frenchman’s sniper is very good shot.” Illya shrugged. 

“Yes, we can send him a bill for the bandages.” Gaby sighed, tugging on Illya’s arm. He grimaced, following her to the kitchen where she pushed him into one of the chairs. She pulled out the supplies he’d picked up at the pharmacy, arranging them on the table. 

“Sorry.” She said, dousing a piece of a bandage in vodka and wiping at the wound. Illya gritted his teeth as the alcohol stung his flesh. She was as quick as possible, hurrying to expertly wrap the bandages around his shoulder. When she was done, she kissed him quickly before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Illya dug out a fresh black turtleneck, pulling it over his head before rejoining Solo in the living room. “You are late.”

“Sorry, got held up by a delayed flight and a delightful French stewardess.” Solo said. “I knew you’d gone soft, Kuryakin.”

Illya glared at him, shaking his head. “You would rather sleep with the enemy yes? Or were my bugs lying when Victoria Vinciguerra was in your room?”

“I was making a sacrifice for the team!” Solo protested.

“Oh yes, you sounded very upset, cowboy.” 

“Anyway.” Solo sighed, changing the subject. “What’s your progress with The Frenchman?”

“Not much.” Illya shook his head, sitting down in the armchair as the sound of the shower turning on came from the bathroom. “More girls disappear every day. His clients must pay well if he can afford men like the sniper who shot me.”

Solo nodded. “Probably Arabic Sheiks, they seem to be fans of buying young women.”

“Possible.” Illya glanced back at the bathroom. 

“What is it?’ Solo asked.

“I don’t like Gaby being here.” Illya’s fingers tapped an irregular rhythm on the arm of the chair. “If I was followed, she could be target.”

“Were you followed?”

“I doubt it, unless someone followed me into the Seine. But it is possible.”

“You jumped into the Seine?” Solo grinned. 

“I had sniper trying to blow my head off, what would you like me to do?” 

“True.” Solo stood, walking to the window, looking down at the street. He squinted at a man leaning against the building across the street, puffing on a cigar, his eyes directed up at Illya and Gaby’s hotel room. He quickly looked away, but Napoleon had already caught him. The man pushed away from the building, walking down the street.

“What is it?” Illya asked, joining Solo at the window.

“It would seem you have a visitor.” Solo glanced at Illya, watching him clench his jaw. “Perhaps you were followed after all.”


	4. The Watcher

Illya stared out the window, squinting in the sunlight, trying to figure out which person had been watching them. "Which one?"

"That fellow with the god-awful beret on his head and leather jacket over his arm." Solo told him, peering around the curtains.

"So I was followed." Illya clenched his jaw, glaring after the man. "We can't stay in this hotel."

"No, you can't. Perhaps we should catch that man and interrogate him about his boss?" Solo suggested, edging towards the door.

"Yes, I like this plan." Illya quickly pulled on his shoes, hurrying to follow Solo. "Gaby, we are following spy."

"What?" She called from the shower, but they were already gone. She closed her eyes, beginning to rinse the shampoo out of her hair. There was no point in trying to follow them, their legs were much longer than hers and they happened to have clothing on.

Illya and Solo raced out of the hotel, nearly knocking over an old woman holding a bucket of flowers. "Sorry!" Solo called over his shoulder as he and Illya chased after the man, who was now nearly four blocks away.

The man looked over his shoulder, eyes widening as he saw Illya and Solo gaining on him. He picked up his pace, breaking into a run after a few steps. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have Illya's 6'5" frame, and the Russian quickly caught up.

Illya grabbed the man's shirt collar, momentarily choking him and very effectively bringing him to a full stop, knocking the hat from his head and the jacket from his arm. "Why were you watching?"

"Watching? I... I wasn't watching?" The man stammered, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Solo shook his head as he caught up. "I'm afraid you were. I saw you myself, gazing up at the window."

Illya brandished a rather large fist. "Tell me who you are. Who is Frenchman?"

The man quaked in his Italian leather shoes. "I am Pierre. F...Frenchman? We are in France."

Solo shook his head knowingly. "I would recommend answering the questions. I've been on the receiving end of that fist and it's not exactly an enjoyable experience."

Illya twisted Pierre's collar and lifted, making the shorter man gasp for air as he found himself standing on his toes. "Tell. Me. Who. The. Frenchman. Is."

"I don't know!" Wheezed Pierre. "He doesn't tell us who he is, just pays is to do what he wants!"

"Better. Where can we find him?" Illya growled, lowering the man a fraction of an inch.

"He doesn't tell us that either, a courier delivers the instructions and then brings payment when the task is done." Pierre's shoes scraped the ground as he tried in vain to regain his footing.

"You have no direct contact with him?"

"No!" Pierre wriggled. "I don't even know when the courier will come."

"Put him down, he clearly doesn't know anything." Solo sighed.

Reluctantly, Illya lowered Pierre to the ground and let go of his collar. The smaller man stumbled back, adjusting his shirt. "Go." Illya ordered. "Before I change my mind."

Pierre turned away, but hesitated, glancing back. "You shouldn't anger The Frenchman. I'm not his only spy, and there are many other willing to do far worse than I." With that, the little man picked up his hat and jacket from where he'd dropped them when Illya caught him, and hurried away.

Illya and Solo watched as Pierre disappeared around a corner, then glanced at each other. "We should get back." They said in unison, quickly walking in the direction of the hotel.

Please don't forget to vote, follow, and comment! Thanks so much for reading! Working on chapter 5 now. <3


	5. Burn The City

As they drew closer to the hotel, Illya noticed the bucket of flowers spilled on the sidewalk, water running into the street. The old woman who had been holding them was nowhere to be seen.

“Gaby.” He grunted under his breath, quickly outpacing Solo as he raced into the hotel and up the stairs.

Illya burst into the room, his heart simultaneously racing and sinking as he took in the disaster. The overturned coffee table, the cracked lamp lying on the floor where it had been knocked from the end table, and the broken vodka bottle, which had shattered against the wall where Gaby had surely thrown it.

“Gaby!” He shouted fearfully, running to the bedroom, bursting into the bathroom where the sink faucet was still running. He turned it off, leaning against the counter, fingernails scraping against the surface. He felt absolute panic, not a common emotion for him. He lifted a hand, staring at his shaking fingers. Gritting his teeth, he balled his hand up into a fist and slammed it into the mirror. The glass splintered, slicing into his knuckles.

“Kuryakin?” Solo called from the living room. “Is she here?”

Illya stalked into the living room at a half-run, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his hand. Solo took a step back as he noticed the rage simmering behind Illya’s eyes.

“She. Is. Gone.” Illya snarled. “Я найду, кто взял ее и убить их. Медленно и мучительно.”

“Find them and kill them slowly and painfully.” Solo nodded. “Understood. However, might I suggest remembering to breathe before we hunt down human traffickers?”

“She is my breath. I breathe when we find her.” Illya’s fingers shook against the material of his trousers as he barely held himself back from hurling the armchair through a window.

"Well then, we'd better get to it." Solo declared gravely. "Pack your things, I barely had time to check in, so I doubt The Frenchman knows I have a room here. We're moving our center of operations there."

Illya nodded sharply, stepping into the bedroom, jamming his few unpacked clothes into the suitcase and slamming it shut. He stepped into the bathroom, quickly gathering his and Gaby's things from the counter and sliding them into her bag.

He lifted her dress from the bed, she must have left it there when she went to take her shower. He crumpled the material, bringing it to his face, inhaling her scent. Gently, he folded the dress and laid it in her suitcase, zipping it shut.

While Illya had been packing, Solo had closed the curtains, turned on the living room lamp, and hooked the do not disturb card on the door handle, making it look like someone could be there and keeping the maids out. Illya appeared beside him, the bags bundled awkwardly in his arms.

"Ready?" Solo asked.

"Yes." Illya replied quietly.

"Let's get up to my room then so we can get set up." Solo turned, holding the door open for Illya.

The Russian stepped into the hall, glancing left and right before heading towards the stairwell. Solo slipped in front of him, guiding Illya up two flights of stairs and halfway down the hallway of fifth floor before unlocking the door to his room.

Illya walked in, setting the bags on the floor. "We find her or I burn this city."

"Maybe we should try a few other things first. I'm fairly certain the French government wouldn't take kindly to a Russian spy burning Paris." Solo shook his head. “The KGB probably wouldn’t love it either.”

Illya glared at Solo. "We should find Pierre and wait for courier, follow him."

"And how would you recommend finding him?"

"You go one way, I go the other, we will find him." Illya insisted.

"You do realize that Pierre is one of the most common names in France, right?" Solo raised an eyebrow dubiously.

"Da. We will find him. We have to."

"What about wherever you were when you got shot?" Solo asked, walking to the bedroom and pulling a map from his bag. “Show me.”

"It was here." Illya took the map, spreading it open to point at a spot a few miles away. "Abandoned building on river."

"Could The Frenchman be there?" Solo frowned at the map.

"Even if he was, he won't be now." Illya rolled his shoulder, wincing. "Is possible he was there and moved to new building on river."

"Yes, he would probably need to be close to the water in order to transport the girls quickly." Solo agreed.

"I can't go back. If anyone saw me before, I will be recognized." Illya gritted his teeth in frustration.

Solo looked him up and down, smirking at the seemingly permanent black turtleneck. "I may be able to help with that."

Illya noticed his expression. "No."

Solo chuckled mischievously. "Oh, yes."

 

Hope you enjoyed it! Don't forget to follow me, bookmark, like, and comment. Thank you! Chapter 6 is coming soon. <3


	6. Makeover

Sorry this one took so long guys! Chapter 7 coming soon.

.......

Chapter 6 - Makeover

Illya stood on the platform, an elderly French tailor bustling around him, checking the fit of a black wool suit. Solo sat nearby, an amused expression on his face as he watched Illya grit his teeth. The turtleneck lay on a small table off to the side, and Illya gazed at it longingly.

“Are we almost done?” He sighed, fidgeting restlessly. “We don’t have time for this.”

"Be still." The tailor ordered, smoothing imperceptible wrinkles in the trousers. 

The Russian glared down at the balding head of the elderly man as he tugged on the bottom of the jacket. Solo chuckled at how offended Illya was by being told what to do, having been on the receiving end of that irritation many times. Finally, the tailor stood back and nodded skeptically at his work.

“You can get down now.”

Illya stepped down quickly, immediately pulling off the jacket and beginning to unbutton the shirt. 

“You might as well leave it on.” Solo said, rising from his chair. “We’ll find you a hat and you’ll all but unrecognizable.”

“The suit needs adjustments!” The tailor grumbled. “He is too tall, it does not hang right.”

“Oh, we’ll manage.” Solo chuckled. “I don’t think he’s planning on wearing it for long.”

Illya pulled the jacket back on and tugged at the shirt collar irritably. “Is very uncomfortable.”

“Yes but it looks so much better than that perpetual turtleneck.” Solo grinned. “Come on, Peril, doesn’t it feel nice to look smart for once?”

Illya drew back, insulted. “I am smart.”

Solo closed his eyes. “No no, I mean… more well dressed.”

“No, does not feel “smart”, feels stiff.” Illya shrugged, trying to find a good place for the jacket on his shoulders. “Why do you dress like this, is very confining.”

“Well…” Napoleon glanced up at the ceiling. “It just looks so good.”

“This should not be priority for spy.” 

“Come, we should get moving.” Solo stepped up to the tailor and handed him a wad of bills. “This should cover it, yes?”

“Oui, oui.” The little man said, moving away as he counted the bills.

Solo nodded to Illya and they exited the little shop, coming out onto the street. Illya held his old clothes close, as if he was afraid Napoleon would snatch them away forever.

“Now what?” The Russian asked. 

“Now we go back to the hotel, collect our guns, and start looking for The Frenchman.”

Illya and Napoleon walked quickly down the Parisian streets, so focused they barely saw the beautiful architecture and variety of people. Finally, they reached the hotel and raced upstairs, both to their respective rooms. Ten minutes later, Napoleon knocked on Illya’s door and stepped inside, jacket slung over his arm, a pair of pistols resting in side holsters above his hips, and a wide-brimmed black fedora in his hands. 

Illya walked out of the bedroom, sliding his own pistols into matching holsters, as well as what appeared to be a rather large dagger in his boot, visible below his rolled up pant-leg.

“What is that?” Illya asked, gesturing to the hat.

“This is part of your disguise.”

Illya shook his head sharply. “No.” He bent down to roll the pant leg down over his dagger and boot.

“But this isn’t even the best part.” Solo smirked, stepping forward to set the hat atop Illya’s head. 

Illya leaned back in disgust, but allowed Solo to adjust the hat. “This is ridiculous.” He grumbled.

“Just wait.” Napoleon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small strip of hair. Then he carefully reached out and plastered the strip below Illya’s nose.

Illya jerked away, walking into the bathroom to look in the mirror. “No.” He reemerged, gingerly touching the little strip of dark-blonde hair above his lip. “This is ridiculous.”

“But effective.” Solo chuckled. “And amusing.”


End file.
